


Not in many an oath and promise broken

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: You Drove Me Wild [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Finwian dramamonsters, M/M, Nolofinwians deal with emotions with their fists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only a matter of time.<br/>Maedhros had warned him, but since when had Fingon ever paid any mind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not in many an oath and promise broken

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Не во множестве нарушенных клятв и обещаний](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963675) by [rio_abajo_rio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rio_abajo_rio/pseuds/rio_abajo_rio)



His mother’s favorite vase was broken, probably irreparably, but Findekáno couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Everything had gotten worse so fast, so damnably fast, that his head was still reeling from it. The tension between his father and Fëanaro was at the breaking point, and the speeches Fëanaro was giving in the squares were drawing larger crowds than ever. And Findekáno felt his anger smolder against his uncle’s words, even as they roused him, and he resented the eagerness of the crowd hanging on his words, even as he stood among them. But he could have borne it had not the sons of Fëanaro started to accompany their father to his orations. Not merely in amongst the crowd, but standing at his side, tall and proud, and something wrenched within his breast when he raised his head and saw Maitimo at his father’s side, clear eyes gazing out over the crowd, his magnificent head brilliant in the late morning light. 

Findekáno had blinked, almost blinded, and wondered how anyone could fix their attention to Fëanaro when he was so clearly outshone by his eldest son. But as Fëanaro spoke on, words like lashes, rousing passions and fears, Findekáno lost himself in the crowd, angry, half wishing Maitimo’s eyes would seek him out, half hoping to avoid his notice. But it mattered not, for Maitimo’s gaze wavered not once from the distance on which he fixed it. 

Afterward, he waited – lurked, if he was honest with himself, hiding in the shadows – on the side street that led to Fëanor’s house. And sure enough, soon came Fëanaro, flanked by his sons. Findekáno stepped out as they passed, and seized Maitimo’s elbow. 

“Can we talk?” 

Maitimo drew up sharply, his eyes flickering over Findekáno, hesitation momentarily marring his clear brow. Fëanaro halted and looked Findekáno over, and Findekáno felt the full weight of his contempt. He gritted his teeth against it, telling himself he didn’t give a damn what his uncle –  _half-uncle_ , his mind supplied, viciously – thought of him. Only one person’s opinion mattered to him. 

“Keep it brief, Nelyafinwë,” said Fëanaro, turning away. “There is much to be done." He strode on up the street, his sons following, though Curufinwë cast a look back at them, a slight sneer on his face. 

Maitimo watched them go, then turned back to Findekáno. “What is it?” His voice was brisk, and Findekáno searched his face for some of the old tenderness. But Maitimo’s face was smooth, impassive. Unreadable. 

Findekáno felt a rush of anger at his imperturbability, and his fists balled at his sides. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into this.” 

“Buying into what?” Maitimo’s voice was cool, lightly curious. 

“This – this _blasphemy_ your father is spewing.” Findekáno knew he sounded self-righteous and overwrought, and he flushed. But he kept his eyes locked on Maitimo’s. 

“Blasphemy?” Maitimo pressed his lips together and gave a slight smile. “That’s rather dramatic of you, Findekáno.” 

“Why are you going along with it?” Findekáno demanded. “Do you actually believe it, or is it just blind loyalty?” 

Maitimo’s eyes flashed. “I could ask the same of you. Do you object on principal or simply because it is _my father_ who is proposing these ideas? Do you decide to blindly hate all that you do not understand, or that scares you? Or do you simply blindly hate all that Nolofinwë tells you to?” 

“This is – don’t- ” Findekáno could have hit Maitimo. How dare he be so eloquent, and so _wrong_? “This has nothing to do with my father. This is – ” 

“Oh, Findekáno, don’t be so naïve.” Maitimo’s eyes were pitying. “Of course this has something to do with your father. And mine. And if you really thought we could avoid this for long, then – ” 

“Then I’m a fool, is that what you were going to say?” Findekáno stepped closer to Maitimo, glaring up at him. “That I’m a fool for thinking that our friendship could go beyond our family tensions and your father’s great plans?” 

“Yes.” Maitimo looked away. “And I was a fool, too, for encouraging you.” 

Findekáno seized Maitimo’s shoulders. “Eru, Maitimo, stop this! You’re doing it again! Trying to withdraw, trying to pretend what we have is nothing, trying to run away, you _coward_ \- ” his voice broke and he slumped. 

There was a pause, and then Maitimo’s arms came up and held him, but lightly, like he was still trying to keep his distance. “Findekáno,” he said, and his voice was gentle now, which made Findekáno hurt all the more. “Don’t you see – this can never work.” 

“It did work,” Findekáno whispered. “It did. We were happy, I know we were, and I knew – I _know_ you love me, Maitimo.” He looked up into Maitimo’s eyes and saw the pain there and knew he’d been right. He reached up, putting a hand behind Maitimo’s head and dragging him down into a rough kiss. 

For a moment, it was all he’d known and needed, and everything was right again in the world. Maitimo’s arms tightened around his waist and he responded to Findekáno’s kiss, pressing Findekáno back against the alley wall. 

 _I can convince him_ , Findekáno thought wildly. _He can’t possibly deny this, the_ rightness _of this… How can he abandon what we have when it feels like this?_

But Maitimo broke away, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “No,” he said. “This is foolishness, Findekáno. I was wrong to think – ” He pulled his cloak around himself and stared up the street towards his father’s house. “Enough is enough,” he said abruptly. “I’m sorry to have led you on.” He strode away, his long legs carrying him swiftly out of sight. 

And Findekáno had turned numbly and gone home. But once he passed through the door, the rage had hit him, and he’d slammed the door so hard that the vase his mother had gotten on her wedding day had toppled from its plinth and smashed into a thousand pieces on the floor. 

- 

Arms trembling, Findekáno notched an arrow and pulled the string back. He released it and the arrow joined a dozen of its fellows in a target that was rapidly starting to resemble a porcupine. Fumbling in his quiver, he saw he’d spent his arrows again. With an oath, he lowered his bow and stamped over to the target, dragging the arrows savagely from the cloth and straw. Refilling his quiver, he returned to his mark and set another arrow to the string. Furious at the tremor in his arms from overuse, he hauled the string back with all his might. 

It snapped, and a whip-like pain blossomed under his eye. The arrow dropped to the ground, and Findekáno followed it, cursing. He knelt on the ground and cautiously probed the swollen skin under his eye. Wincing as he found the edges of a long cut, his fingers slipped in blood. 

“Careful. Let me.” A soft voice made him look up, squinting through his bad eye, and he saw Findaráto standing at the edge of the clearing, still wearing his formal council robes.  

“Turukáno said you’ve been out here for hours,” Findaráto said, approaching Findekáno and kneeling beside him. With light fingers and scraps of cloth torn from his robes, he cleaned the blood from Findekáno’s cut and set to dressing it with some herbs from his belt pouch. “You should be glad I always carry these with me these days,” he said, working swiftly. “Given Aikanáro’s proclivity for mishaps, I’ve found it wise to have some on me at all times. There.” He sat back on his heels and eyed his handiwork critically. “It may scar. But you’re lucky; you could have lost an eye.” 

“Thank you,” said Findekáno gruffly. He retrieved his bow and studied the snapped bowstring.

“Frayed,” said Findaráto. “You should have replaced it some time ago.” 

“Yes, well,” said Findekáno darkly, “I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Maitimo.” It wasn’t a question. 

Findekáno looked away. 

“You realize what he’s doing, don’t you?” 

“Being an arrogant, supercilious ass?” Findekáno cast the bow on the ground with a certain amount of violence. Findaráto retrieved it and brushed it off. 

“He’s trying to make it easier,” he said, gathering a fold of his robes to run along the curve of the bow. 

“Easier!” Findekáno burst out. “How is this – How can he consider this – _Easy?_ ” 

“I mean,” said Findaráto, seating himself on a log and laying the bow lightly beside him, “that he’s trying to make it easier for you to hate him, to fall away from him, so that his father’s actions won’t be the reason you break.” 

Findekáno was so angry that his skin felt over tight. He resisted the urge to claw at it. “So he’s protecting his father? Or just being a damn _coward_ for thinking we can’t weather this? Valar all damn, I hate him!” 

“I believe that was his intent,” said Findaráto.

Findekáno kicked a rock viciously, sending it flying into the woods. “Valar curse all Fëanorians and their too-clever machinations.” 

“Perhaps they will.” Findaráto’s light eyes were eerie in the shaded clearing. “Artanis feels we are nearing a turning point on all this. There is something she fears, but she won’t name it to me.” He twisted his fingers together, uncharacteristically restless. “I can’t help but feel this is a time we should affirm our bonds of friendship and family, rather than severing them.” 

“Tell that to Maitimo,” Findekáno growled. “Stubborn, self-centered _bastard_ – ”

“I have tried.” Findaráto smiled tiredly. “The sons of Fëanaro no longer wish to speak with me on this matter.” 

Findekáno brought his hands to his face, suddenly exhausted, sinking down beside Findaráto. “What are we going to do?” 

Findaráto laid a hand lightly on his back. “Truly, cousin? I do not know.” 

- 

When Findekáno returned home, covered in sweat and blood, his mother had given an exclamation of horror and sent him to the bath and the healer in quick order. Weakly protesting to no avail that he wasn’t a child, Findekáno complied, and obeyed when she told him to stay still – “For once!” – and get some rest. 

Confined to the drawing room, Findekáno’s eyes were drawn guiltily to the empty plinth where the vase had stood. His mother did not mention it, and he’d allowed her to fuss over him before leaving for a dinner with Eärwen and Arafinwë. 

Slumped listlessly in the window seat, Findekáno saw the rider coming up to the gate. For a second his heart rate sped up at the color of the rider’s cloak, the star stitched there, but then he cast back his hood, revealing fair hair. 

Tyelkormo.

Findekáno curled his lip in a bitter smile. So. It was all well enough for Irissë. 

His sister was striding down the path now, and there was a rigidity to her shoulders that Findekáno recognized. 

Hm. Perhaps not so well for Irissë. Or rather, not so well for Tyelkormo. 

Irissë came to a halt before their cousin’s horse. Hands planted on her hips, she tilted her head back to look up at him. He didn’t dismount, but leant down to her, and Findekáno _tsk_ ed from the window. 

 _A beginner’s mistake_ , he thought. _Irissë already hates to be looked down on, much less from atop a horse._  

Tyelkormo was smiling, his charm palpable even from a distance, and saying something too low for Findekáno to hear. But Irissë was shaking her head, retorting angrily, and Tyelkormo held out a placating hand. She swatted it away and gestured, plainly telling him to dismount, but he just shook his head and laughed. 

“Mistake,” Findekáno murmured to himself, as he saw his sister reach her breaking point. 

With an audible curse, Irissë reached up, seizing the front of her cousin’s tunic, and dragged him bodily from the horse, casting him down on the cobblestones. There was a faint crash, and Findekáno winced. The sons of Fëanaro had taken to wearing armor beneath their clothes; it couldn’t have made Tyelkormo’s landing any softer.   

“There’s poetic justice for you,” he muttered, grinning as he watched Irissë plant her foot on a stunned Tyelkormo’s chest and lean down, ice cold in her rage. 

Rising from the window seat, he made his way to the back of the house, and the gardens, deciding to leave his sister to take her retribution in private. He tried not to let the annoyance build in him. _So Tyelkormo has the courage to come by our house, however ill advised, but not Maitimo?_  

There were no more vases to break, no more arrows to let fly, so Findekáno flung himself down on the grass and raked his fingers through his hair, heedless of his braids. 

 _Thrice-cursed Maitimo and his pride; double damn him for blindly following his father’s madness, and may he wallow in Utumno for presuming to know what’s best for us! For me!_ He closed his eyes as the anger he’d held onto so carefully broke into grief. _How could he possibly think that what’s best for me is a life without him?_  

Light footsteps alighted on the grass by his head, and he cracked an eye to see Irissë, like a ghost in the low light. He opened both eyes now, knowing they were wet and red-rimmed, beyond caring if she saw. 

“Sit up,” was all she said, and he complied. He felt her settle in behind his back, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair. 

“You’ve made a real mess here,” she said. 

He shrugged, and she began to undo the snarled braids, combing his hair with her fingers until it lay loose and heavy across his back. 

“I think I’ve found a solution to the anger,” she said, as she began to redo the braids, her fingers light and quick. “At certain haughty Fëanorian cousins, that is.” 

“Oh yes?” 

“Yes.” He could hear the smile, sharp as glass, in her voice. “A solid punch straight to the face. It’s done wonders for my mood.” 

Findekáno laughed for the first time in days, and it sounded harsh to his ears. “Ah, poor Tyelko.” 

“Poor nothing,” said Irissë. “He thinks he can come over and have me forgive him because he says some pretty words? Hah. All that proves is that he never really knew me after all.” 

“At least he bothered to come at all.” Findekáno knew he sounded childish, and cleared his throat roughly. 

“Yes, well,” said Irissë quietly, and sighed. She tied off the ends of his braids and leaned against his back. “I cracked my knuckles open,” she said, into his hair. 

Findekáno laughed again and turned to tuck her under his arm. “That’s what happens when you punch a man, little sister.” He took her hands in his and examined them. “I’ve seen worse. I threw a bad punch sparring once and broke my knuckles. But how,” he squinted, “did you scrape both hands? Did you punch him once with each?” 

Irissë wrinkled her nose. “I scraped them on his damned armor when I hauled him off that horse.” 

Findekáno grinned at her. “That was impressive.” 

“I didn’t mean it to be _that_ impressive.” She winced and rolled her shoulders. “I didn’t expect the armor. He weighed a lot more than I anticipated.” 

“You must have been angry indeed.” 

“Obviously.” She stared out across the dark gardens. “What do they think will happen?” she asked suddenly. “Do they fear they’ll be stabbed in the streets? Why wear armor?” 

“I don’t know,” Findekáno said quietly. He had demanded the same of Maitimo, not so long ago, but Maitimo had deflected the question – as ever, infuriatingly noncommittal. 

“Artanis says the storm has not yet broken,” said Irissë, and Findekáno shivered, remembering Findaráto saying much the same that afternoon. “But that it is coming.” 

“Findekáno! Irissë!” The call cut through the stillness, and they both looked up towards the house. Light was streaming out over the dark lawn, and Turukáno’s tall form was silhouetted in the doorway. 

“What is it?” called Findekáno, getting to his feet and offering a hand to Irissë. 

“It’s Haru,” came Turukáno’s voice, and they could hear the anxiety in it. “He’s called a council meeting.” 

Irissë frowned as she followed Findekáno back to the house. “Wasn’t there one just this afternoon?” 

“This is different,” said Turukáno, and Findekáno felt a surge of dark foreboding. “He has called all the lords of Tirion to council. And father is worried. More worried than I’ve seen him.” 

Findekáno laid a land on his brother’s shoulder and tried to make his voice calm and reassuring. “Well, we shall see soon enough, then.” But as he looked back over the dark grounds and the shadowy hills behind, fear twisted within him. He thought he could almost hear Artanis’ whisper as he dragged his cloak around his shoulders.

_The storm gathers._

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. So clearly the timeline of this series isn’t linear. This installment falls quite a bit later, as the darkening of Valinor (namely, Fëanor starting to stir shit up) begins in earnest. So at this point, assume Fingon and Maedhros have been Together for a while.  
> 1\. I didn’t really intend to do full series on these two, but I’m going to just keep going until I burn out. It's rapidly going to get a lot more angsty, I expect.  
> 2\. Whitman keeps giving me the titles for these stories. Which is grand, because I’m rubbish at coming up with my own. Thanks, Walt.  
> 3\. In fact, unless stated otherwise, just assume any title I use is either nabbed from Whitman or from Tegan & Sara. Different ends of the gay spectrum, but equally well-suited to my purposes.


End file.
